All the other cards have to “follow suit” — you know, oh, a club, well, you have to be another club if you want in.

That shit is basically racist!

Not to mention conformist.  It’s sad really, it makes me sad.  Sad like a boy stroking the hair of his pony, right before it’s time for his pony to die.  His pony has gangrene.  His pony has gangrene! Guess riding through the rustswamp wasn’t such a great idea, huh?

So what is so CrAzY about the 8s?  They just change the suit.  In some versions of the game you can lay down multiples of the same number to effectively change the suit.  And in all versions, I can lay the same number card on top of yours to change suit.  Is that so crazy?  I don’t think the 8s are crazy at all.  If they are, then the game should be called “Crazy 8s And Sometimes All The Other Cards”.

But even the 8s aren’t always “crazy”.  Sometimes, when a player wants the suit to remain as-is, they will play the 8 and leave the suit unchanged.  Now that seems crazy!  But certainly it’s not the 8s fault.  It’s the fault of the player.  So the game should be called “Occasionally Crazy 8s And All The Other Cards Too”.

But what’s so crazy about changing suits?  A business man does.  A business man changes suits. Does that make the business man crazy?

If that business man is crazy, why are so many people investing in the business man’s business?  Maybe he’s only occasionally crazy too.  Perhaps while his suit remains constant at work, he’s not crazy.  But when he switches suits in the morning, or to go for an evening swim, then the business man is crazy.  Or maybe the investors are crazy.  But so many?  That almost seems like everyone is crazy.  But is everyone crazy?

I think it would be crazy not to change suits.  After all, nobody wears the same suit every day.  So really, everything other than changing suits is crazy, so the 8s are the least crazy of all.  So the game should be called “Crazy Everything Other Than The 8s Ocassionally, and Sometimes the Others Too”.

But ultimately, it’s up to the player using the cards, is it not?  For the player could pass, leaving all of his or her cards from being crazy.  Maybe holding on to your cards is the sanest possible thing– after all, holding on to a baby isn’t crazy.  Holding on to a baby isn’t crazy. So the game should be called “Crazy Players”.

But are the players crazy?  It seems to me that the players aren’t crazy at all.  They can, for example, remember all the rules.  Presumably they aren’t sociopaths, because this is a fairly social game after all.  Certainly playing cards isn’t crazy.  So the game should be called “Crazy”.

But is the game crazy?  It doesn’t seem like it’s really any different than any other game.  You have tokens, rules, and players.  So the game should be called “normal.”

But is the game normal?

Naw, that shit is CRAZY!

No, the song doesn’t end.  It goes on forever.  Don’t you see?  It’s just receding into the distance!  It’s just being taken elsewhere– you, stay put.  The art moves on.  But take note that the song lives and plays on for forevertude in Plato’s heaven!  …That’s some serious goddamned artist hubris right there.   Fuck THAT shit.  No art should end in a way that is a simulation of me walking away.  How passive.  How effete!

Films don’t fade away to nothing leaving the viewer feeling unresolved.  Nor do paintings.  Or photographs.  Nor books.  Somehow, musicians felt that they could get off easy with a little bit of audiophonic legerdemain, but it isn’t going to work anymore.

It was quite obvious when you stepped out of the elevator for but three seconds before returning that you hadn’t conducted your business– and how presumptuous of you to insist that I perhaps thought so.  Unless the business you had to carry out was to pass wind in the general area of HR before moving on upstairs, this fact is clear.

Sometimes people refuse to properly spread themselves out: there is an unspoken rule in an elevator: like particles of gas that expand their territories to fill their container with a uniform density, so too do humans spread themselves about an elevator.  Imagine walking into an elevator where three people were clustered awkwardly in the south-western quadrant?  Such a thing is highly unlikely.

Sometimes when there is a mass exodus, you will occassionally be left in a corner, with a single companion.  And somehow, this single companion is not “filling the void,” as it were: he still stands strangely close to you, despite the market flood of property in the area previously owned by those who exited on the sixth.  He is not spreading himself out.  He is not respecting the principle of uniform density.  And this is intolerable.

But the very worst infraction, the most unforgivable, is the senseless time spent shortly after getting on to a “down” elevator.  Many elevators do not have parking garages and find their lowest floor to be the concourse level.  And this is the level the vast majority of people will get off at.  Yet, for some reason, for some unknown goddamn reason, people getting on to the down elevator immediately run to number panel– is it not obvious at once that you are in an elevator with others?  Dear complete fucking idiot, is it not equally obvious that, so long as there is someone else in the elevator, and that elevator is going down, and your destination is the bottom floor, there is absolutely no logical, no rational, no excusable reason for you to be standing around staring at the panel of numbers?  What could you possibly conclude?  For fuck sake, stop embarrassing yourself and retarding the uniform density principle by stuffing yourself where you don’t belong.  Indeed, if you’re getting off at the bottom floor, you will never have to push a button if you are in the presence of someone else: you must only start thinking when you are alone.  Shame on you.

How often do you see someone get on the down elevator, mosey on over, all curious, all interested, all ready-for-action, over to the number pad, and see, as though it was unexpected, that someone had already set the elevator’s course to the desired coordinate?  Oh, well, excuse me, hey everyone!, gather around: a new captain has boarded the ship.  Well then, everyone, let’s take a moment to christen Lord Captain Elevator Fucking Moron the III.  At this point, the asshat will usually start smashing the door-close button — despite the fact that everyone is aware that it doesn’t speed anything up — in an attempt to wrench out some sort of reason supporting why they approached the control system to begin with.  Oh, we’re not to believe you’re an incoherent fuckwit, no sir, we’re to believe that you’re so important because you’re in a hurry, and in such a hurry that 1.5 seconds shaved off this elevator ride is worth the effort you’re putting into pressing that non-functioning button not once or twice, but several times, in rapid succession?  Is such urgency required when, really, and we all know it, you’re actually just making a non-verbal argument to all those watching about why it’s excusable that you have fucked up our uniform density and shanghai’d the navigation system?

Thankfully, we know better.